Damian's POV
Four days had passed since June was taken from me. I got worse every day.
My existence became beyond pathetic. I never left the office since my condo had been turned into a fucking crime scene. After a blood transfusion and wound repair procedure, Bullet stayed in overnight recovery at AMC. Even though we had full facilities in the building, I hadn't showered, shaved, even fucking brushed my teeth.
Barely two bites of food had passed through my mouth. Every time I ate, my stomach heaved it back up. My lips were dry, my hands trembled uncontrollably, and my eyes were burnt out, red with irritation worse than any crack addict busted for possession this week.
My mind wouldn't stop running on overdrive. The thoughts jumbled into an incoherent pile of trails and leads and dead ends and reopened leads.
Possible locations we hadn't checked yet, witnesses we hadn't interviewed yet.
Countless times, I replayed how I yelled at her.
Fuck, she can have every damn stray animal in New York if I get her back.
I'm glad that my eyes glazed over because every look sent in my direction was full of sympathy. I didn't deserve it, June did.
Fuck, I can't -
A cleared throat preceded a gruff, "Go, Damian."
Hernandez kicked me out of sleeping in my office, if nodding off at my desk counted as sleep. I appreciated the fact that he omitted the word 'home,' because I didn't fucking have one anymore. Since our apartment was a fucking crime scene and Bullet was at the hospital, I couldn't go home.
I sure as fuck wasn't staying with Mom or Emma. My superior officer had enough sense that he called Jason, not my mother, for my next of kin.
Celia and Jason opened up their makeshift guest room to me, in the form of a full-size mattress on the floor of their nursery. Surprisingly, they kept it the same light gray as the rest of their place, with white baby furniture. Even more surprisingly, being surrounded by baby shit wasn't as uncomfortable as I expected.
Not that it helps.
Prior to staying with them, I hadn't slept more than an hour consecutively. The first night, I shifted in and out of two-hour spurts, passing out from exhaustion. Given my inconvenience, they were more than accommodating.
Especially since Celia's the size of a house.
Her entire body was swollen, even her hands. Her belly expanded in more directions than I thought humanly possible and limited her mobility to waddling to the bathroom in sweatpants and house slippers.
"It works out," Jason assured between bites of eggs and bacon. "I feel better knowing Celia's with someone while I do these last two runs."
While I appreciated the warm food, it coated sawdust on my tongue. "Where are you driving?"
"First one's in Iowa, second North Carolina." My eyebrows lifted at the first one being halfway across the country.
"I know," he grumbled and finished his breakfast. He blew a breath out pursed lips over his coffee cup. "These are the last two. They're paying double because their normal driver is sick."
Jason looked as tired as me. His skin was gray and sagged on his hollowed cheeks. Dry cracks split his lips and puffy lids sat around his red-rimmed eyes. His movements were slow, as if running on reserved energy.
I appreciated him not telling me which particular organs he was transplanting, almost as much as I appreciated both of them not forcing me to talk.
Celia's lips pulled to one side from where she stood at the other side of the island. Her blonde ponytail shook as she packed up his lunch and drinks into a cooler. Jason shot up from his seat the sound of her labored breathing.
"Honey..." His hand lowered to her back, where he rubbed circles with his palm. "I can do that. Doctor Lin said -"
"I know," she whispered and dipped her head down. "I like having something to do."
"Have a good day." Her eyes shifted to me. "I... made you one too."
"Thanks," I muttered, snatching up the bag of wasted effort.
Twenty-four hours later, work turned into a nightmare. The fuckers who took June mailed flash drives to me at Vice. With the delay in mail scanning and an inflood of possible tips and leads, we operated on a two-day lag. Once the first drive arrived, new threats arrived every other day.
Hernandez snatched each one, refusing to let me watch them. He only offered that it showed evidence that June was still alive. The weight in his eyes gave away they'd seen images that haunted him.
I was torn between stealing the drive from his office and never wanting to know what it contained. All of NYPD was on alert about June's kidnapping, along with the city being informed daily. After every public statement I issued, calls flooded into our phone lines, email, social media feeds, even people showing up in person at the precinct office.
We sent APB's out past New York's limits, into the rest of the state, New Jersey, Connecticut, as far south as Delaware and Philadelphia. It was a sonar signal cast into an empty ocean, without a single pinged response.
The ten-thousand-dollar reward turned into fifty thousand, then one-hundred thousand. With each increase, more calls flooded in across multiple precincts. Rogue Junes popped up all over the tri-state area. Each lead took time and resources to track down, so much that the call center started issuing fines for bogus reporting.
All those efforts weren't enough. We weren't fucking enough.
One mailed video turned into two, which turned into three. My previous refuge of seeking justice and good will now reeked of disappointing reminders of how I failed June.
Certain circumstances created moments of solidarity that united NYPD officers across divisions, no matter what petty arguments or jurisdiction squabbles existed between disagreeing coworkers and ego turfs. Vice undercover work that involved adult prostitutes and white-collared johns barely batted an eye. Threatened children notched all of us into a sense of urgency and cohesiveness as resources were combined and joint efforts supported.
Another heightened, solidarity circumstance was when another officer or their family was targeted. Kidnapping the kindest-hearted person who'd ever walked through the 34th's front glass doors was damn near a guarantee of all Vice's resources focused into finding June.
Fuck, I even drew from other resources - Investigations, Gang, even SVU, SWAT, and our liaison's office with ICE. Each sympathetic manager assigned one of their detectives under my direction, responsible for scouring their department's undercover intel for any shred of information related to June's location.
The search warrant process was a royal pain in the ass on any day, doing it legally that is. Movies and TV showed the action-packed arrests and raids. In reality, we needed time and evidence. Any and all leads were assigned whatever stakeout resources I was offered, thankful I was offered it in spades. I threw out overtime like candy and condoms tossed at the Pride parade.
The lag in returned undercover surveillance, even oral reports, was frustratingly slow. Every second that ticked by was one where June slipped further and further away. But I refused to let go of the possibility she wasn't out there.
I couldn't.
Normally, I held nothing personal against criminals. They deserved a neutral, impartial reaction from me because in the grand scheme of battling crime in New York City, I was a gnat flying in a hurricane.
Nick taught me that feeling anger or frustration gave away control of my actions, although I needed three months of his long-distance counseling before I believed him.
But they don't deserve any piece of June's heart.
Grounding my elbows on my desk, I dragged my hands through my hair.
To some extent, I don't either. I brought this life to her, my home, my family.
My fingers dug into the base of my skull.
And now it's destroyed.
Details that I still hadn't pieced together slipped through my fingers. Mentally, I grasped at flowing water. Fragments flashed through my mind as I dragged a team back to her work. I traced June's last steps twenty, thirty, fifty times, expecting New York's sidewalks to reveal an additional clue.
They didn't.
Over the past five days, I interviewed street vendors, homeless people, fuck even the neighborhood watch representatives and every NCO in the 34th and all adjacent precincts. No one added a shred of tangible assistance.
An equally satisfying as frustrating dead end was when I stormed one block over, into June's former work office, the phone sex company Wet Dreams. I had Shirley schedule the visit without informing them who was coming so I could see the smug grin dissolve on Kevin's greasy face.
"Damian?" his eyes widened from behind his desk at the badge I flashed him. "Is there... some kind of trouble here?"
The words, 'Hopefully not more than your pathetic existence causes,' tempted to spew out between my mouth, but I caught them. Shutting his door behind me, I tightened my hands into fists.
Yep, still do.
Taking a deep breath, I calmed the beating in my chest. Focusing my eyes on the degree plaque on the wall behind his desk, the same school June attended. "I assume you've seen the news."
"About June? I don't need to. It's all the office gossip is whispering about." Equal parts sympathy and curiosity filled his eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Hope you don't think anyone here is involved in that kind of shit."
Good cop first, Damian.
"We're following all possible trails at this point and, since June used to work here, I was wondering if anything suspicious ever happened during that time." Leaning forward, I pulled a small notepad out of my coat pocket. Scribbling rough words was only for show.
Total prick.
"Other than the moment when she started seeing you, nope." His fish lips pulled into a smirk.
Absolute total prick.
Clenching my teeth, I took another deep breath. "Is this a joke for you? Because I assure you, it isn't to NYPD and it sure as fuck isn't to me or June right now."
"June." He scoffed at the nickname. "As far as I'm concerned, the only place you should look is in a mirror."
This is going to destroy every shred of patience I don't have.
"See, the annoying thing about cops is they're always poking." I sat down in one of his chairs. "Always digging their noses where they don't belong."
I want to punch his teeth out.
"You don't know shit." His words were challenging but the uptick in his voice at the end gave away his nerves.
Fucker knows something.
I wasn't sure how he knew anything, but I wasn't leaving here until I knew what it was.
"Now... you're either telling me everything I ask about right here and now, or I can come back with a search warrant on the grounds of obstruction of justice and have NYPD tear apart your entire floor."
Cupping his hands behind his slicked-back hair, Kevin leaned back in his seat and smirked. "I'd like to see you try."
The vein pulsing in the side of my neck urged me, with each beat, to punch his greasy face bloody. While satisfying, that option was counterproductive, and I was already tired of the time this weasel wasted.
My hands coiled around his shirt near the collar. Drawing them in tight, I pulled until his mouth parted. "Listen, you slimy piece of shit. This isn't the time to play who won, who lost and who's dick is bigger. June's been kidnapped by sex traffickers. Does a prick like you not understand what those sickos do to innocent women?"
The details I omitted churned my stomach, but I tightened my grip on Kevin's shirt. My biceps were so clenched, they pulled my coat sleeves tight. Up close, he smelled like cheap cologne and fear, trembling under my gasp. His face blurred as I narrowed my eyes.
"I-I told you," he muttered. "I don't know anything."
"Let me be the judge of that," I warned him, my heart pounding. "Unless you'd like to come back to the Thirty-Fourth and do it hooked up to a lie detector."
Prior to coming here, my team dug up what they could on Kevin Barnes. At twenty-nine, he lived a quiet, pathetic life out of his Bronx condo.
"All I know is neighborhood gossip." Flashing up his hands, I released him with a grunt. "Lotta people hate cops, Damian. Can't say I don't blame them."
I'm getting nowhere.
Irritation flared in my veins at this giant waste of time. My breath shortened into pants. Rubbing my forehead, I stood upright. "Alright, you don't want to tell me, fine. Let's go."
"Wuh-what?" He gaped like a fish. "Now? But I have -"
"Shut up." I stuffed my hands in my pockets. "We can do this one of two ways, civil now or I'll be back tomorrow with a subpoena, patrol unit, and cuffs. Your choice. You have until I walk out to decide."
I didn't get two steps away before he sighed. "Fine."
Stepping out of his office, I was greeted with rows of curious faces over the sea of gray cubicles. My eyes met with Adam's, who stood up, but I shook my head and stepped near the exit.
"Fucking embarrassing," Kevin muttered as I held the outside door for him.
Since I wanted the creep's cooperation, I kept my mouth shut on the reminder that I could've worn my cop uniform to draw more attention. I doubted he had any tangible leads but desperation controlled my actions.
After signing Kevin in, I led him straight to Jenks' desk. Activity hummed around him, my detectives pouring through the shitpile of anonymous tips. Jenks' large frame hunched over his desk, the phone at his ear and one palm flat on his head.
"I don't care what protocols you have to navigate, just make it fucking happen!" he roared out, making Kevin jump.
"Jenks," I palmed his shoulder. "This is Kevin, use room three please."
"Yes, Sir. I secured the video footage you requested." Kevin swallowed as Jenks' stood up, dwarfing him in all dimensions. "Suggest you watch it with closed doors."
"Thanks."
With a silent nod, Jenks led Kevin to the interrogation room hall. I exhaled from practically hearing Kevin's knees knocking.
The missing office security footage burned into my core existence, so I made tracking down its disappearance Jenks' first priority. My security system's feed was confiscated as evidence, but I still had cloud access. In a horror film's replay loop, I replayed that feed over and over.
Having Jenks' secure the building's security footage only made the situation worse. The perps entered the back of the building, under the disguise of service workers. Stripping out of maintenance uniforms inside the elevators revealed their all-black attire before they stepped into my hallway.
This wasn't fiction. It wasn't shitty makeup, questionable decisions, or unrealistic CGI effects.
This is my June.
June made all the right steps, boarding herself behind locked doors and defending herself. Her best efforts fell short, which was why I couldn't stop the way my fists squeezed so hard my knuckles wanted to split through the skin. My molars grinded until my jaw ached and strain dried my eyes.
June herself provided the most significant clue, the way she stiffened and froze at one of the perps. Her body language contrasted her scurrying around, cowering in a corner, or lashing out with the taser.
She recognized him.
The image was too blurry to read the words her rounded mouth formed but her eyes also pulled wide.
No, she knew him.
For that reason, Bryson and I interviewed every doctor, tech, assistant, fishbowl cleaner, poop scooper, surgery stitcher, and janitor at the animal hospital.
June's direct supervisor, who aged the more times I demanded he repeated his story, shared my concern but offered no help. It took three fucking days, but Bryson and I came back with a warrant to search their records.
Unfortunately, Kevin's information coincided with suspects that were already on our radar. He'd overheard a few sidewalk punks bragging about busting up cops from the inside out, but without specific names, his testimony was useless.
The waste of time left a bitter taste in my mouth and hole burned in my chest.
Slamming my palm on AMC's front desk, I demanded, "Lemme see the HR files."
"Y-yes, Sir," the older woman behind the desk gaped up at me, her hand trembling around the phone receiver.
Bryson's hand on my shoulder only tensed it harder. Like my jaw, my fists clenched and unclenched until a familiar face appeared.
"Captain Rivera?" A young, black female looked up at me with rounded eyes. June's friend, Courtney. "Officer Bryson?"
"Yes." Flicking my wrist, I flashed my badge to her and the front desk worker for good measure.
"Dr. Harris said you were back." Her fingers curled, and she nodded at Bryson's offered badge. "Follow me."
My chin dipped, I eyed the back of her heels as she led us down a hallway and into a small, windowless office. Sitting behind the desk, she turned on the computer monitor and waved me to follow. Dropping the warrant papers on her desk, I crossed my arms and stood twelve inches behind her. Bryson leaned against the opposite wall, his eyes within sight of both her computer screen and the opened door.
"I'll print you a list of whoever Juneau worked with over the past thirty days. But the last people..." Courtney's nails clicked, fingers tapping as she pulled up June's file. "Were Doctor Mahoney and Luca. It was..."
"What?" I asked when her fingers paused over the keyboard.
"It was the last day of her training him," she murmured.
Red flag number one.
With a shake of her head, she clicked on her mouse. My hand rubbed every last prick of stubble off my shin as she clicked through a few HR files. A Hispanic male in his early twenties popped up.
I didn't recognize him. Lifting my eyes to Bryson, he shook his head. "Hang on." I snapped a picture and sent it to Jenks. Tucking my phone in my pocket, I clenched my hands. "Where does he live?"
"Good question. His address is..." Courtney leaned closer. "Missing."
Second red flag.
"Find it." My fingers dug into my palms. "Is he working today?"
"No." Her head shook, and she clicked through a screen that listed multiple schedules. "He hasn't worked since... Tuesday."
Morning June was taken. No way that isn't a coincidence.
"This search warrant includes his prints," I pointed at the warrant papers. "Which I'm not leaving without."
"Yeah..." Her hand lifted her phone ,and she dialed a number. "I need you in my office. Right now. No. Nope. NYPD is here. Yes, again. Yes, now. Mmm-hmm."
With a soft click of the receiver, silence filled the space between us. Bryson's eyes flicked between me and Courtney's screen. Dipping her chin, Courtney's eyes looked over her shoulder at me, dark from her lowered lashes. "Will you... find her?"
"Doing everything possible to that end," I muttered, lifting my eyes when the office door opened to an aging vet in a white coat and green lanyard hanging around his neck. His stringy eyebrows drew together at me as he snapped off a pair of gloves and threaded them inside out.
"Captain Rivera." My badge made its second appearance, as did Bryson's. "Hi again, Doctor Mahoney."
"Look, I told you already." His hand twisted the doorknob. "I don't -"
"Tell me about Luca..." Leaning over, my eyes shifted to Courtney's screen. "Luca Cabello."
"He's an intern." Dr. Mahoney scoffed, earning him a cleared throat from Bryson. "From Brooklyn."
Maybe.
I shot the info to Jenks.
"He was here the last shift Juneau worked." My eyes narrowed. "Do I need to remind you of the consequences of obstructing an open investigation?"
"Juneau was training him," he deadpanned, shutting the door behind him with a click. "They worked every one of his shifts together."
"He scrubbed in for a..." Courtney hummed at her screen. "Ten am spay with you, Sir."
"And he was a no-show." Dr. Mahoney shrugged.
I clenched my jaw so hard, my molars married each other. "And you didn't find that suspect?"
"We perform hundreds of daily procedures here, Lieutenant. I couldn't pause one for a no-show." He offered a noncommittal head shake. "He's always been a bit... queasy during the procedures. Juneau often filled in the messier parts for him."
The veins in the sides of my forehead throbbed, threatening to rupture. "And, for someone interning here, that wasn't suspect!?"
"Do you know how many employees we have here, across twenty-four-seven shifts?" he grunted.
"The first moment he reappears, you call me." My eyes lifted to Bryson. "And you'll tail him."
Incoming clouds before a storm darkened his blue-gray eyes. After he nodded, I turned and left for the last option I knew of.
I left the Animal Hospital with mounting frustration and channeled it on my way to South Bronx High School.
"You sure this is a good idea?" Bryson's eyebrows lifted.
"Nope." I already opened the door and stepped outside. "We need to find and tail that coworker, Luca. Stay here, call Jenks and get him to run a match."
Stepping out of the cruiser, I approached the most unlikely source for a tip: back to South Bronx High School. Aurelia, the girl who glared at me from her back row seat next to June, was the sole reason I presented myself for the 'career day opportunity' six weeks ago.
Aurelia never contacted me, so I wasn't about to wait around.
Office Mari, my departed undercover street worker, originally tipped me off that trafficked girls were being shuffled into the local high schools. With barely any background, the schools accepted them but understandably held concern over the unfamiliar girl's general welfare. When I explained the severity of the problem to Principal Smith, he welcomed me with open arms.
This time, I waited in Principal Smith's office. The large, tired, frustrated man was relieved to see me again. Aurelia, however, was not, especially when Principal Smith exited his office and shut the door behind him.
"You again?" She spat, frowning and turning to the closed door. "I didn't do shit."
Since she was the opposite of a ball of friendly sunshine, I tried the direct approach. Crossing my arms over my chest, I stared her down. "I don't believe you."
Her jaw jutted up, teeth clenched in defiance. "I'm clean."
I matched her stubbornness with mine. "For what kind of tests?"
"You don't know shit," she hissed between her teeth.
From a distance, she was any other pissed off teenager. A black backpack hung at a haphazard angle over her right shoulder. Her uniformed appearance was identical to the other students, except for a small gold chain around her neck.
My voice stayed even, the threat simmering within my choice of words. "I know a hell of a lot more than you think."
Little did she know, I had a pile of surveillance pictures of her. She was one of Amaya's girls, stashed away in a similar rowhouse four streets over from the South Bronx street where Santino was arrested. Obviously, she wasn't housed in a cage twenty-four-seven, but she couldn't have been more 'hidden in plain sight' obvious unless she had a sign draped around her neck.
"I know what they do to you." Firm and insistent, I refused to budge. "I know they took you to the Hotel Cliff on Hundred-Eighty-First Street last Friday night. I know who presented you, for those men's selfish, evil greed. You want out? You want to live your life without that part in it? You want a normal fucking Friday night for once, Lola?"
Her eyes pulled wide as I laid out my cards, the name she was called as they abused her in the most sickening way. I towed a dangerous line, revealing what I knew about her background before convincing her NYPD's protection would ensure her safety.
My lips rolled in under the sliver of doubt that sliced into the back of my mind.
Fuck, June wasn't even safe.
"You can't do shit," she slipped up, then recovered with a muttered, "And you don't know shit either."
"I know that you want to be Aurelia, not Lola," I whispered and tucked another card into her back. This one was strapped to the back of a burner phone. "This is anonymous. No trace, nothing tied to you. One call and you're out. You don't owe them shit, Aurelia."
I closed her bag compartment with a hissing zip. She stood as still as a statue, a heavy weight darkening her eyes. With one last push, I offered her the absolute truth.
"You deserve better."
I left with those words and my last prayer for June, hoping both were enough.